The Duke’s Bargain

The night was thick with a grave silence that curdled the blood in her veins. Estella ran as she never had before, her breath sharp in her throat, nearly choking her. She kept pushing. The pounding of her heart against her ribcage was all the motivation she needed. She would not let them find her.

Not far behind, wild laughter shattered the gloomy quiet. Estella's blood ran cold. She pressed on, her unforgiving heels making her stumble one too many times. White hot pain washed over her from suddenly twisting her ankle, but stopping wasn't an option. There would be enough time to tend to her wounds once she was certain she had escaped. She needed to get as far away as possible.

Even without turning back, she could picture the place she was fleeing. Lady Agatha's ball. The brilliant chandeliers hanging from the high ceilings. The extravagant fashion at every turn. Everyone had looked their best tonight, and for once, Estella had been no exception.

That was the problem. She had been made to look good—forced. She rarely did, not for lack of desire but because fortune had never been kind to her. She had been born into a family that treated her as a commodity, a means to settle debts. Now, she was to be sold off to a man old enough to be her great-grandfather, Viscount Alistair Ravensdale, so her stepmother could clear her reckless obligations. Her father had been no better, sealing her fate with equal indifference.

That man. That decrepit viscount. That Swine. She would never belong to him. Estella loathed him with every fibre of her being. Never. A small smile curled her lips at the thought of his devastation when he realised she was gone. When they all realised she was never coming back. Serves them right.

Her smirk deepened before vanishing. A male voice rang out behind her. Stern. Rough. Ordering her to stop.

Wouldn't it be a shame to be dragged back now?

She bunched up her gown and ran, kicking off her shoes. The tall, gleaming gate ahead was her salvation if she could just reach it.

The voice called again, closer this time, followed by hurried footsteps—heavy ones—not the tread of an ordinary man.

Estella ran faster, a shiver running down her spine. Was it her father's henchman? Had he suspected her plan and sent someone after her?

The footsteps quickened into a chase. Her heart pounded. It had to be Theodore. She was sure of it. But how had he found her so quickly? She had slipped out the back, unseen, and had been gone no more than seven minutes. Eight, at most. He could not have gone out front, realised she wasn't there and circled back this fast.

Estella's mind raced, but so did her limbs. The burn crept up her legs like acid, searing and relentless. Keeping ahead was getting harder. Still, she would not give in. Not when the one chasing her was gaining ground.

"Stop. I command you."

Estella flinched but did not slow. The weight of his voice pressed into her bones, but she kept running.

Thirty more steps. She clung to the number, forcing herself forward. The lawn ahead was slick with mud. It splattered up her legs, clinging to her ankles. Her feet, now heavy and unsteady, struggled to keep pace.

Twenty.

"For goodness' sake—"

Eighteen.

"Would you just stop running? Quit running. Damn it!"

Fourteen.

Her breath was failing her. Not surprising, given that the only thing in her stomach was a bowl of cold porridge she had choked down that morning. She was beyond famished. And Theodore was to blame for forcing her to burn through what little energy she had left.

Nine.

She could make it. If she reached the gate, she could climb over. She had practised enough times to know she could escape her father's henchman. She just had to get there. And then—

"Aargh."

Pain ripped through her foot. She had stepped on a jagged twig, its spikes tearing into her sole. Estella faltered, nearly collapsing.

Almost.

Two strong hands seized her shoulders and yanked her upright. She fought against them, but not fast enough. In an instant, soft, succulent lips crushed against hers.

A strangled cry caught in her throat. She struggled, but her body betrayed her. A moan slipped free. She cursed herself for yielding, for not fighting harder. She kicked out with her good leg, but the kiss did not break.

He deepened it. His thumb pressed into the side of her throat, his other hand pulling her close. Estella gasped against his weight, her mind spinning.

This was wrong. It was all wrong.

Why would Theodore kiss her? Why would she let him? Had he been watching her all this time? And what did it say about her that she had not fought harder?

And to think this was her first time. Her very first kiss.

No!

Steeling herself, Estella bit down hard on his lip, enough to draw blood. The man grunted, stumbling back.

"Are you crazy?" he shouted, checking his mouth.

Estella stole the moment to spit on him and then take to her heels.

"Not so fast," he said, seizing her wrist. "Where do you think you are going after ripping a pound of my flesh?"

Was he seriously complaining?

"And what about you, stealing my lips like that? In case you need a definition, what you just did was assault. A punishable offense by law."

"Under whose law?" asked the man in a lazy, amused tone—nothing like Theodore's.

As if on cue, the moon suddenly shifted, spilling white light over his face.

Estella caught her breath.

Up close, he was ethereal-looking, impossibly masculine. He was making her heart leap in ways she did not welcome.

But the worst part?

He wasn't Theodore.

She had let a complete stranger steal her first kiss.

"Who are you?"

The question hit Estella, seizing her with the crushing grip of a heart attack. Cool air brushed against her cheeks and naked feet. It wasn't just that he had taken something from her. It was the fact he had made her feel cheap by faking no idea of who she was. How much more bad luck could a girl stomach in one night?

"I just asked you a question. Who are you?" His rough voice dripped with impatience. Under the moonlight, Estella could make out his furrowed brows, though they did nothing to mar his infuriatingly perfect features. He didn't just look regal. He carried himself like a man accustomed to power.

Why had she not noticed his fine clothes before? Or the way he smelled like wealth itself bent to his will? He had to be someone of noble standing. And if he was, she was doomed. A man like him could twist the truth, accuse her of assault, and walk away unscathed. She would be left to salvage what remained of her dignity and self-worth.

Estella swallowed hard.

"Who are you, and how did you end up here?" His tone hardened. "You are not supposed to be out here. So tell me. What were you trying to do?"

"What does it look like to you?"

The words escaped before she could stop them.

Her eyes squeezed shut, and Estella bit her lip. She should not have said that. It could only make things worse.